


the long summers of manacor

by polkadot



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Coming Out, Doubles-Player!Andy, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-20 00:09:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7383085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polkadot/pseuds/polkadot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andy and Rafa and a brace of Manacor summers, as a teenage friendship deepens into something more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the long summers of manacor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [speakingwosound (sev313)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sev313/gifts).



_2002_

Mallorca is sunnier than Andy was expecting, and he emerges from the bus blinking against the glare. Taking a moment to adjust backfires on him, though, as someone bumps him from behind and says something under their breath – no doubt something rude about stupid British kids. Andy’s language skills are severely limited (despite his mother’s attempts to make him study Spanish phrasebooks over the last month), so he can only stammer a “perdón” and try to move out of the way of the other disembarking passengers.

“Andy!”

Rafa, shouldering his way through the crowd with the blithe confidence of a local, is grinning as broadly as the Mallorcan sun. He might be only a casual friend – they gravitate towards each other at juniors events, blessed with a similar sense of humor that transcends language barriers – but Andy has never been so glad to see someone before. (Except maybe his mum, but he’s fifteen now and wouldn’t admit that anymore, so.) 

“¡Hola, Rafa,” Andy says, raising his hand in an awkward wave. Before he’s finished the greeting, Rafa’s grabbed Andy’s bag and slung it over his tanned shoulder. (Andy is either going to tan or burn here in Spain, and he has a sinking feeling he’ll find out which very soon.)

“Your trip good?” 

Andy knows neither his Catalan nor Rafa’s English is good enough to explain that the seats on the airplane were cramped, the bus’s air-conditioner was either busted or nonexistent, and he misses his family already (mostly his mum, but even Jamie, the most annoying of older brothers). He settles for an awkward, “Sí. Mucho tiempo. Ahora aquí.”

Rafa stops dead, which given that he’s currently threading his way expertly through the crowd, with Andy tagging along behind, means that Andy nearly runs into him. “Good!” He claps Andy on the shoulder, his grin even wider. “I teach.”

Andy’s not sure how good a teacher Rafa is, and he’s definitely not sure how good a student _he_ is. But that’s what he’s here for, isn’t it? To learn? He’s not like Jamie, whose tennis talent is off the charts, who everyone watches and starts talking about Fred Perry, who wins almost every time he steps on court, whose favorite surface is grass (as is right and just for a British tennis player). Andy’s the awkward clay courter, the gangly kid, who’s better than most other players but just doesn’t have Jamie’s spark. So he’s come to Mallorca to learn, to grow, to get covered in clay and try to find his own spark, his own place in the world.

Maybe Catalan lessons will help.

“Professor Rafa,” he says, keeping his face deadpan and hoping the word is similar in Catalan.

Rafa cracks up and slaps him on the shoulder again, so it probably is.

As they head off towards the tennis centre, Andy trotting to keep up with Rafa’s long confident strides, he feels better than he has for days. Yes, it’s too sunny here and he’s gonna burn like crazy. Yes, he’s homesick already. Yes, he feels very out of place and awkward. But he has a friend, and he has tennis. This is gonna be an adventure. 

~

_2003_

The day his mother comes to visit, she arrives three hours early. Rafa has just played a shot breathtaking in its speed and audacity, but utterly and completely out. (Or, well, utterly and completely two centimetres outside the line – but that counts as out just as surely as two metres.) Of course he’s claiming that it caught the line, and even though they’re just playing for fun before Andy has to go clean his room in preparation for his mum’s visit, Andy is not about to let injustice stand. He’s in the middle of a foulmouthed diatribe (which only makes Rafa laugh, the fucker), when he hears his full name from the sideline, and freezes.

“We were, uh, just having a disagreement,” he ventures, jogging over to give her an awkward hug. “You’re early.”

It’s only been a year, but already the English feels a little odd on his tongue. There aren’t any other English-speaking students at the centre, only him, and he had to learn Catalan to survive. Now it’s second nature, just as much a part of him as the clay under his feet. 

“Andrew,” his mum says, raising an eyebrow, “I don’t have to be fluent in Catalan to grasp the gist of what you were saying. And I _do_ know what puta madre means.”

Rafa, the traitor, is trying not to choke on his own laughter. But when Andy’s mum looks in his direction, he comes over and greets her, all politeness. She accepts the _dos besos_ with equanimity, then beams at him. “Top 70. We’re all so proud of you.”

“She says you look tired and you must not be eating right,” Andy translates.

“Tell her her son is a little shit,” Rafa says, his face still wreathed in a welcoming smile.

Andy suggests they all go in to lunch.

Soon enough she’ll want to have the careful conversation he knows is coming. Jamie and Rafa are both making their Wimbledon debuts in a few weeks; he’s only a year younger. How is the centre working for him? Now that Rafa is on the tour, and isn’t around as much, is he making other friends too? Is he homesick? Does he want to leave Mallorca and come back to train on rainy grass again? How is his backhand these days? 

But for now, as his mum heads towards the house and Andy and Rafa trail behind, surreptitiously elbowing each other in the side and trying not to give themselves away with laughter, he’s just glad to see her again. He wouldn’t give up Mallorca for the world, but he does miss home sometimes. Anybody would.

“I totally won,” Rafa says, under his breath. “Pushups after lunch.”

“It doesn’t count if it’s interrupted,” Andy retorts. “It’s like, a rain delay or a spectator-faints-in-the-stands delay. Nobody wins.”

“Uh-huh. You just don’t want to do pushups, you lazy ass.”

“I’m not a lazy ass, _you’re_ a lazy ass,” Andy says, outraged, because _he_ isn’t the one who Toni has to yell at to get up in the mornings, and _his_ room doesn’t look like a tornado destroyed it. 

(Even though he misses home, he thinks that if he went home, he’d miss Mallorca.)

~

_2004_

“This is shit,” Rafa says. 

They’ve both had a couple beers. Usually they’d be hiding somewhere, afraid of Toni catching them and reading them the riot act, but Rafa is in a daring mood tonight. Andy thinks he half wants Toni to catch them, wants to get yelled at so he has an excuse to yell back.

“You’re only eighteen,” Andy points out, gesturing vaguely with his bottle. “You have lots of years to win stuff. It’s not like you’re thirty or something.” He tries to imagine being thirty, and fails.

Rafa scowls and thrusts out his leg, glowering down at his ankle as if it has personally offended him by choosing to get a stress fracture. “I want to win now.”

Andy knows it kills Rafa to be off the court. Jamie was like that – still is, as far as Andy knows; they keep in touch sporadically, mostly through their mum, because being on tour doesn’t leave too much time for chatting with a kid brother. (Which really, Andy’s only a year younger, Jamie doesn’t have to act so superior all the time, sheesh.) But Andy remembers the time Jamie sprained his wrist and couldn’t hit for a while, and it hadn’t been fun.

“So impatient,” he says, and drinks. It doesn’t taste that great, but that’s not really the point. “If you’re bored, I’ll teach you English.”

Rafa makes a very rude gesture, and Andy struggles not to laugh. “English is dumb. You spend the time working on your backhand.”

“My backhand is fine,” Andy says, although it isn’t, not really. He knows Rafa’s just teasing, and he doesn’t take offense, but yeah, it does smart a bit. With both Jamie and Rafa on the tour, winning things and proving they belong, while he’s not there yet, it’s tough. _You’re a year younger,_ he tells himself. _It’ll happen._ “Your English is shit.”

“I know the important bits,” Rafa says. “Tennis. Gamesetmatch Nadal.”

Andy finishes his beer and sets the bottle neatly on the balcony floor he’s sitting on, then tips over sideways to lean his head against the arm of Rafa’s lounge chair. “You have to do press conferences.”

“So I bring you,” Rafa says, indifferent. “Or I make Toni learn.”

Andy raises his head to glare up at him. “I am not teaching Toni English.”

Rafa laughs down at him. His teeth are very white in the moonlight, his lips wet with beer. “What do you want me to learn?” He leans down, busted ankle and delayed dreams seemingly forgotten for the moment. “Tennis. Bad call. Shit. Fuck.”

“You gonna get in trouble,” Andy warns, trying not to laugh.

Rafa’s eyebrow quirks, and oh, Andy knows this mood. “Backhand. Forehand. Balls. Racquet.”

“If you’re done trotting out all the English words you know,” Andy says, with a longsuffering sigh.

“Oh, I know lots more,” Rafa says, in Catalan. “I’ve been studying.” He leans down the rest of the way, his mouth very close to Andy’s ear, and proves it.

Andy wonders who taught him that particular page of the vocabulary book (probably Marc Lopez, the innocence in his eyes is deceptive), and hopes devoutly that he doesn’t try any of these newfound English skills out on the staid reporters at Wimbledon.

~

_2005_

“I don’t know why you won’t stay,” Rafa says, his arms crossed over his chest.

Andy, trying to shove a last pair of shoes into his suitcase, gives up for the moment. “Yes, you do. Just because you don’t _want_ me to go, doesn’t mean you don’t know why.”

The afternoon sun slants through the window, falling across Andy’s bronze arm. _Guess I tanned after all_ , he thinks, detached. It’s only been three years since he came to Mallorca, but it feels like a lifetime.

Rafa sighs and drops heavily onto Andy’s bed, toppling a pile of neatly folded shirts. “You could wait another year.”

Andy shakes his head, retrieving the shirts and starting to fold them again. “I know I’m not ready for the tour yet, but I can’t stay a junior forever. I need matches. Hopefully it won’t be Futures for long, hopefully it’ll be Challengers soon, and then I’ll be beating your butt at Roland Garros before you know it.”

He watches the smile spread slowly over Rafa’s face, the jolt of glee in his eyes. It’s only been a week since Rafa lifted the Coupe des Mousquetaires, when Andy, on his feet jumping up and down in happiness, knew suddenly that if he stayed any longer, he would be only an adjunct to Rafa’s success, forever tagging along. He doesn’t want to be Rafa’s little brother, Rafa’s hitting partner, Rafa’s decently-talented friend. He wants to be his own self: Andy Murray, tennis professional.

“It won’t be the same without your lazy ass taking up the bathroom in the morning,” Rafa says. 

It’s as close to a _I’ll miss you_ as Andy is likely to get, and he nods in acknowledgment. "It won’t be the same without you stealing all my shoelaces and making me do pushups every time you win practice sets.”

Rafa grins. “Pushups are good for you.”

“Shuddup,” Andy says, and pushes him over on the bed. 

They used to play-wrestle all the time when they were younger, before they started to worry about freak injuries and strained muscles. But now Rafa grabs him, and they’re rolling around in the formerly-folded clothes, knocking Andy’s suitcase off the bed. “Shit,” Andy says, making an abortive grab for it, and Rafa laughs, pinning his shoulders and grinning down at him, all teeth.

“I take it back,” Andy says, slightly breathless. “I’m not gonna miss you at all.”

But he’s smiling, and so is Rafa, and the moment stretches; the sun dapples everything, sticky-sweet. Andy thinks he’ll remember the sun more than anything else, the brightness that means Manacor.

~

_2006_

“Hey,” Rafa says, no introduction, no proper greeting. “So I was thinking, you’re in Europe right now, right?”

Andy smiles and leans back into the pillows on his crappy hotel bed. “Since when do you care about timezones?” He’s been woken up at 3am more times than he can count by a chatty Rafa who’s forgotten that Andy’s in South America that week. Andy doesn’t really mind. It’s worth it to listen to Rafa’s chatter, to get a taste of home. He wonders if Rafa calls him so often (nearly every night) because he’s homesick too.

“Shut up, I try to remember,” Rafa says. “I even got this planner calendar thing that has timezones, and I put your tournaments in it so I know where you are.”

Andy’s impressed. Or he would be, except – “Why do I have the feeling that you lost it?”

“Just because I can’t find it at this very minute doesn’t mean that I _lost_ it,” Rafa says, all righteous innocence. “It’s probably in a suitcase pocket I haven’t checked yet.”

“Uh-huh. You need someone to pick up after you.” Except Rafa is really territorial about his stuff. At the centre, if anyone besides Andy moved his racquets or gear bag, he got super grumpy. And grumpy Rafa is kinda scary.

“Anyway,” Rafa says, sounding put-upon, “you’re in Europe, right?”

Andy looks up at the muted TV, which is playing a French news channel. He’ll try to find a wrestling match after they’re done talking. “Yeah. Why?”

“I was thinking,” Rafa says. “The Godó asked me if I want to play doubles this year. You feel like it? Obviously they’d give us a wildcard.”

Andy’s played his share of doubles, of course. It’s a way to get some extra matches in and pick up a little extra cash. He’s actually pretty good at it. And Rafa’s not bad himself. They’ve never played in competition together, but it’d be fun. 

(And, a small voice inside Andy says, it’ll be the tour. The _tour_. Wimbledon will probably give him a wildcard this year; even though he’s a claycourter and kinda shit on grass – and only just graduated to Challengers – he’s a Brit, and Jamie Murray’s younger brother to boot. But if he does this with Rafa, his first time on tour will be fun and low-stress, no comparisons with Jamie or pressure from the bloodthirsty British media. Just a friendly lark, with Rafa drawing whatever attention there is.)

“I’m game,” he says, trying to sound cool.

They don’t win, but they get to the semifinals. Spanish clay feels like coming home, and playing by Rafa’s side is even better. The Barcelona sun keeps them company, as they chase lobs and slap hands and fight furious volley exchanges at the net. Even though Rafa’s won a Slam and might win his second next month, when Andy looks at him he still sees the kid he knows so well, his goofy mischievous hilarious best friend. He tells him off-colour jokes under his breath during changeovers, trying to get Rafa to choke on his water, and bear-hugs him after wins. 

If this is what the tour is, Andy could get used to it.

~

_2007_

“So you’re having a quarter-life crisis,” his mother says. She sounds unsympathetic, but Andy knows that’s just her way. She’s probably really worried about him, but knows better than to let on. He doesn’t think he’d like it, if she hung on him as oppressively as some guys’ mums do.

“I dunno,” he says, pushing the chicken around on his plate. 

He went out in the first round at Wimbledon again this year, just like last year. Jamie made it to the quarterfinals, before losing to Hewitt; no shame there. The British press can never get enough of him, gushing over their twenty-one-year-old future hope. Andy is his gawky younger brother, less talented, claycourter, afterthought. It hurts, when Andy lets it. (Although Jamie can have the British media and welcome to them.)

“Do you want to quit?” his mother asks. “You don’t have to do tennis just because Jamie does. You could be anything you want to be.”

Andy tries to imagine himself in a different life. A stockbroker, a solicitor, a PR man. He thinks he’d go nuts, stuck in an office all day. A cook? He burns eggs on the regular. An intellectual? He’s really not much of a reader.

“I just wish I didn’t suck at tennis,” he says, aware that he sounds like he’s about five, and flushing.

His mother sighs. “You don’t suck at tennis. So you’re a Challenger player for now. You’re only twenty. That can change. And you’re getting to travel the world and meet lots of new people.”

Andy doesn’t really like meeting new people. He likes the people he already knows, who know him. And as far as traveling the world goes – he knows the world’s shittier tennis courts, sure, but apart from that he mostly knows the insides of hotel rooms.

“Look,” she says, when he doesn’t answer, “why don’t you call Rafa and see if you can visit? You two have always been thick as thieves. Maybe it’ll cheer both of you up.”

Andy thinks that as far as Wimbledon regrets go, ‘I’m glum because I lost in the first round again and I suck at tennis’ is _slightly different_ than ‘I’m gutted because I lost an achingly close final against one of the greatest players of all time’, but he’s not going to try to explain. 

And it’s not a bad idea, really. He can already feel the Mallorcan sky stretching over him, the sunshine and the sound of the waves on the beach. If Rafa’s mopey, he can tease him out of it in no time. Is it a temporary escape from his problems? Maybe, but maybe escape isn’t always a bad thing.

He calls Toni, who suggests they make it a surprise. Andy guesses from his tone that Rafa is indeed in a foul mood, which surprises him a little; Rafa takes losses hard, but he’s usually able to shake them off and look to the next battle. It’s part of what makes him him. But then this one was particularly heartbreaking, especially after last year’s loss in the final as well. Andy knows how much Rafa wants to win Wimbledon, maybe even more than Jamie does.

Andy wonders if it says something about him that he can’t picture winning it himself now, even though it was one of his favorite daydreams as a kid.

~

“Vés a cagar.”

This is starting out well. Andy sighs, resting his head against Rafa’s doorframe. Toni warned him that he and Rafa had a dustup after lunch; presumably Rafa doesn’t want Part Two. 

Well, the best plan of attack is probably to go on the offense. He shuts the door behind him and climbs straight onto Rafa’s bed, straddling the lump of bedclothes that is Rafa.

“What the fuck?” Rafa says, muffled. “Get off.”

“Not until you stop telling me to go shit myself,” Andy says, maintaining his seat somewhere on top of Rafa’s middle as Rafa tries to throw him off. 

That ignites a flurry of activity, until Rafa’s disheveled head pokes out of the sheets. “Andy!” The momentary grin of welcome fades into a scowl. “What are you doing here? Did Toni tell you to come?”

“My mum told me I was making her want to turn to drink,” Andy says. “Apparently I need a vacation. And Manacor is so much nicer than England.”

Rafa’s grin is back. “No shit.” 

It’s so easy with Rafa, Andy thinks, as Rafa shoves him off and pulls himself out of bed (complaining all the while), finding clothes and outlining various plans for vacationy activities. They’re both grumpy as hell right now, pissed off and licking their wounds, but just being around each other makes things so much better. Not for the first time, Andy wishes he was as good at tennis as Jamie; being on the tour with Rafa would be so much better than bouncing around the Challenger venues of the world, washing your own socks in the sink. 

They go fishing that afternoon, just them and the boat and the sound of the waves. Andy leans back and closes his eyes, letting the Mallorcan sun kiss his skin. He might get sunburned – he’s more tan than most Brits, but he’s indoors more than he was as a teenager – but right now he can’t bring himself to care. 

“Don’t you dare draw a dick on my forehead with sunscreen,” he says, without opening his eyes. One of his Challenger buddies did that to another guy last month, and while it had been funny at the time, he doesn’t fancy being the victim.

Rafa laughs. “We’re here to fish, not nap! You fall asleep, you take your chances.”

“Jetlag,” Andy says, and lets himself drift off curled up against Rafa’s side, his head ending up pillowed on Rafa’s shoulder.

(When he wakes up, Rafa complains about having been used as a pillow, but he didn’t draw a dick on Andy’s forehead, so Andy counts it as a win.)

Later, as the sun sets, they strike out for shore, having actually caught a few fish for once. Rafa is quiet now; the rich colors of the sunset play across his face. 

“Hey,” Andy says. “You okay?” 

He regrets saying anything the moment after breaking the silence – maybe Rafa just wants to be left alone – but Rafa is shrugging already. “It was hard.” 

“Yeah. It looked hard.”

Rafa stands next to him, a little shorter but far more muscular. (Maybe if Andy worked on his body more, he’d have better tennis results; but it’s hard to find the time when you’re on the Challenger circuit. A vicious cycle, that’s what they call it.) “Last year, I told myself, okay, it wasn’t your time. Next year. But now… this was next year, and I was so fucking close.”

Andy watched every point, lived and died with the scoreline. 

Rafa shrugs. “I know I should say ‘next year’ again. But what if next year never comes? What if I only win Roland Garros?”

“Ugh,” Andy says, bumping him with his shoulder. “So bad to only win Roland Garros, such a shitty title, not worth anything at all.”

Rafa pinches him, hard. “Shut up. You know what I mean. I don’t want to just be a claycourter. I want to win Wimbledon. Don’t you want to win Wimbledon?”

“Yeah,” Andy says. “And I want to walk on water, and fly like Superman, and…”

“Shut _up_ , I don’t know why I bother talking to you,” Rafa says, but he’s smiling. 

The shadows are growing. Soon they’ll be back on land, back to the everyday problems of their lives. They’ll enjoy this brief vacation, but then it’s back to the grind for both of them. Rafa has the summer hardcourt swing, and Andy has whatever hellish string of Challengers he’s signed up for; he’s forgotten the details already. 

“Look,” Andy says. “I can’t guarantee you’ll win Wimbledon. But I truly believe – really truly, not bullshitting you – that you will. And it’ll be even sweeter because you came just short this time.”

They sail in silence for a few minutes, Rafa’s warmth next to Andy protecting him from the evening chill over the water. 

Then Rafa shakes himself, like a dog coming in out of the rain, and turns his face towards Andy. “C’mon. We make this the best vacation ever.”

Andy thinks that sounds great.

~

_2008_

It’s early in the summer (too early to be called summer if he was in the UK), but in Mallorca, it’s already warm and sunny. Next to Andy, Rafa settles down with a contented sigh, his face a picture of relaxation.

“Not too bad losing early if it means you can goof off in Manacor with me, huh?” Andy teases.

Rafa wrinkles his nose. “Fucking Juanki.” But there’s no heat in his words. He has a long summer ahead of him – not only Roland Garros and Wimbledon, but then all the way out to Beijing for the Olympics – and Andy thinks that having a few days off in the sun is exactly what he needs. 

They drift for a while, only nominally fishing. Andy watches Rafa’s face, not sure if he’s dozing or just daydreaming. Does he picture himself lifting the Coupe des Mousquetaires again? Or is he on Centre Court, the crowd on their feet for him? 

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Rafa says. 

Andy swallows. There’s a conversation he’s been meaning to have with Rafa, and he’s put it off for months, telling himself he needs to do it in person. Their paths don’t intersect that much, it’s mostly telephone calls (still nearly every night) and texting (Rafa is a texting fiend), so it’s been so easy to put it off, and put it off, and put it off. And now he’s running out of time.

“I’m not going to make it on the singles tour,” he says, abruptly. 

Rafa goes from sleepy lassitude to sitting up in about five seconds flat. “What?”

It’s been six years since Rafa won his first match on the ATP tour, right here in Mallorca. He probably hardly remembers life before it, life before success and victory and the headiness of fame. He’s never experienced the grind of Challenger years, trying to just break even, trying desperately to mold yourself into some faint shadow of your best friend or your older brother. All he knows is glory.

“I’m not saying I’m quitting tennis,” Andy says, staring at his hands. “I thought about it. But I can’t. I don’t know what I’d do without tennis; I’m pretty shit at most things.”

Rafa puts a broad hand over his, his grip a comfort, and Andy hangs on. Now that he’s started, better to get it all out. “I just don’t think I’m good enough to make it on the main tour in singles. I’m not bad at tennis. But I’m not good enough to be you, or Jamie.”

“You don’t need to be me or Jamie,” Rafa says. “I like you just the way you are.”

“Yeah,” Andy says, feeling a rueful grin on his face, “but you just like me as a friend. You liking me doesn’t make me good at tennis.”

Rafa makes a little noise under his breath, and Andy dares to look at him. He doesn’t think he’ll see disappointment, but he’s not sure. He’s not sure of a lot, these days. 

“Not just a friend,” Rafa says, so quietly that Andy hardly hears him over the beat of the water against the boat.

Andy squeezes his hand. “A brother, then.” His chest feels tight. He loves Jamie – he’s awesome, and not just at tennis, even though he can be a right pain in the arse and absolutely insufferable – but he’s always been such an _older brother_. Rafa is – Rafa is Rafa, completely indescribable really, but definitely a brother in arms.

“A brother,” Rafa repeats, with a little huff of something that might be laughter.

“Hey,” Andy says, poking him with the hand that isn’t entwined with Rafa’s. “I’m pouring out my heart here, don’t laugh at me, you asshole.”

“I’m not laughing at you,” Rafa says. His face, when he turns it to Andy, is blank; something is going on behind his eyes, but Andy can’t tell what it is. “If you’re giving up on singles but staying in tennis, what are you going to do? Become a doubles specialist?”

Andy gives him the benefit of the doubt on the laughing thing and forges on. “Yeah, that’s the plan, after one last try at Wimbledon. I’m good at doubles. If I get a good partner, I think I can work my way up onto the main tour. It doesn’t pay much, but more than Challengers. And I don’t have to quit tennis.”

“I think it’s a great plan,” Rafa says. He still hasn’t let go of Andy’s hand. His palm is sweaty, but Andy doesn’t let go either. “I’ll play with you whenever I can.”

Andy shakes his head. “Only when it’s good for you. If you play with me just to be nice, and you end up overplaying and getting injured or exhausted, I’ll never forgive myself.”

“Also Toni will kill you.”

“Also Toni will kill me,” Andy agrees.

Rafa makes a thoughtful noise, as if something has suddenly struck him. “My phone bill will go down, if you’re on tour with us and not stuck out in Nowhereville, Kazkahstan.”

“Hey, I liked Nowhereville, Kazakhstan,” Andy protests.

“Suuuuuuure,” Rafa says, with a wink.

~

_2009_

Rafa’s out fishing, his mum says, ruffling Andy’s hair when he bends to kiss her cheeks. Is he eating right? Always so skinny. She’ll make his favorites for dinner. He can wait on the beach for Rafa if he wants; everyone else has gone shopping.

When Andy makes it out to the beach behind the house, leaving Rafa’s mum happily bustling around the kitchen, he sees that Rafa isn’t fishing after all. No doubt he started out intending to, but instead he’s slumped in the sand on the far side of the boat house, out of sight of the main house. His shoulders curve downward, his face turned away.

Andy doesn’t say a word. He sits on the sand next to Rafa and puts a hand over his, curls their fingers together.

Last year was perfection itself. Rafa won Roland Garros and Wimbledon back-to-back, the latter in a match that they were instantly calling the best of all time. Then he won the Olympics for good measure. He was on top of the world, and Andy had been in his box for every one of those triumphs, cheering his lungs out. (Luckily Rafa hadn’t played Jamie. That would’ve been horrible; Andy would have felt torn in two. It’ll happen someday, he knows, but so far the draw gods have been kind.)

This year started out great too, with Rafa winning the Australian Open, and Andy’s partnership with Max Mirnyi settling in. He’s on the tour now, ranked in the 30s, no longer stuck in Challengers. Sure, he’s not making a lot of money, but he’s making enough to live on. (It helps that Rafa picks up basically all his food. He’s never asked, and he does pick up the check sometimes, but given that Rafa makes basically ten thousand times what anybody else in his circle does, nobody feels too bad about him paying for dinner.)

Being on the tour is everything Andy has ever hoped for. Sure, he’s not winning anything _big_ yet, but he and Max did win a title in Delray Beach this year. And they got to the quarterfinals in Roland Garros this year, which is really quite solid.

But. 

“You lost too,” Rafa says, after what seems like forever. His voice is flat, morose; nothing like what Andy is used to from him. This is worse than after Wimbledon 2007.

Andy shrugs, not letting go his grip on Rafa’s hand. “Yeah. Paes and Dlouhý. What can you do, it’s Leander.”

Losing in the quarterfinals means he earned nearly €20,000. Nothing compared to Rafa’s cool €70,000 (and that for one less round played), but hey, it’s enough. He’s good enough to give himself a career on the tour, and that’s good enough for him.

(Rafa is striving on a completely different level.)

Silence descends. The sun beats down on them, relentless. Mallorca never cares if Andy’s happy or sad; it’s the same no matter what. He realised a while ago that it feels more like home than anywhere else.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” he says, finally. “I mean it. We can fish and eat your mum’s cooking and play pranks on Toni and I’ll even let you humiliate me on the court. Or fuck tennis entirely, we can just be complete hedonists for a few days.”

Rafa laughs, soundlessly, with little mirth. But he doesn’t push Andy away.

Andy gives him time. He could sit here forever, in the sun and the breeze. The smell of the water fills his lungs; sand bunches up between his toes. From the house, the aroma of good things cooking begins to float out to them.

“It’s not just Roland Garros,” Rafa finally says, softly, so that Andy has to bend closer. “Though why the fuck it had to be fucking Söderling… if it had been Federer I would’ve been fine, he’s wanted it so much for so long, and he’s so good, if he’d shown up and was better on the day, fine. But Söderling. Fuck.”

“I vote we just call him ‘that fucking shitbag’ from now on,” Andy says, when Rafa pauses, just to see the lines on Rafa’s face relax a little. “Or ‘Shitterling’,” he says, giving the English a mallorquí accent. 

Rafa does smile, then leans into the side of Andy’s body, pressed up together in the small shade the boathouse affords. “It’s my knees,” he says into the space between them, hushed, like it’s more than a secret, it’s something that gains power if he says it too loud. “My fucking knees. They’re not sure if I can play the grass season.”

“Oh Rafa,” Andy says. He’s known all year that Rafa’s knees are causing him trouble; it’s not something that Rafa could have kept hidden from him even if he’d wanted to. And he knew watching the match against Söderling that the knees were bad. But the grass season? Not defend Wimbledon? 

“And my parents,” Rafa says, his voice ragged, before stuttering to a stop.

Andy’s parents have been split up for a long time. But Rafa’s family, so dear and welcoming to Andy since he was a gawky fifteen-year-old, has always been so close, so supportive, so integral a background to Rafa’s sunny disposition, his total assurance that people love him. Ever since the Australian Open, when Rafa’s father told him on the flight home that they were splitting up, Rafa has been dealing with change, and holding it together – just. Now it seems it’s all falling apart at last.

“Oh Rafa,” Andy says, again, and slides his free arm around Rafa’s shoulder, pulling him into a side hug, holding Rafa against him as Rafa buries his face in the side of Andy’s neck, holding on.

~ 

The next day is better. Andy doesn’t mention tennis; he kicks his gear bag into the closet and goes through his suitcase to find non-tennis-themed tshirts (and steals a few of Rafa’s out of his overstuffed closet when he comes up a bit short). Rafa’s mum packs them a lunch and kisses them both goodbye. Andy hopes she put dessert in – what is vacation if not a chance to cheat on your healthy-eating habits – but she’s not as strict as Toni, so she probably did.

Rafa is still too quiet. Andy, usually the quieter one, keeps up what conversation there is, but so much of their life revolves around tennis that he finds himself a bit lost. Football is safe, though, and they debate the prospects of seemingly every team in Europe. And silence isn’t a bad thing either, not companionable silence under a bright summer sky, with a snappy breeze in the air.

“It was brave, what you did last year,” Rafa says abruptly, after one of those long silences.

Andy looks up, half-smiling. “Yeah? What do you mean? The time I tried to grow a moustache? That wasn’t brave, that was just dumb. I should never listen to Jamie, he’s a wanker.”

“Not the time you tried to grow a moustache,” Rafa says, shooting him an exasperated look, although there’s a smile trying to pull at the corners of his mouth. “When you switched to doubles.”

Ah. That. Andy feels the twinge of loss somewhere in his midsection, as he always does when he thinks about his singles career. Singles is what everyone dreams of, and he wasn’t good enough. Not for him the glory. 

But he shakes himself out of it, because self-pity is a stupid look, and he likes his life anyways. “I didn’t think of it as brave. Just thought it was a way to stay in tennis.”

“Still,” Rafa says, leaning over the handrail. “You didn’t know it would work.”

Andy shrugs. “If I wasn’t good enough for tour doubles, then I guess I would’ve had to find a boring regular job. Maybe I could’ve been a commentator. I hear they like monotones and humorlessness.”

Rafa doesn’t deign to address that. He looks pensive as he stares into the sun. “What if my knees are fucked?”

_What if 2008 was it for me. What if I’m destined to be one of those ‘cut down before their time’ stories, the proud owner of six Slams but retired at 23 years old. What if I never again bite a trophy – what if I never again hit a forehand – what if I never again hear the umpire announcing me victorious._

Andy answers the unspoken questions, matching Rafa’s quiet tone. “Then you’re still one of the greatest fucking players to ever play this fucking game.”

Rafa shrugs, one-shouldered. “So what? What does that mean to me? I have the rest of my life. What do I do?”

“Well, you’re going to have to do something after tennis anyway,” Andy says, aiming for a light tone. “Unless you want to play until you’re 70, which, I mean, everyone needs to have goals, but that seems a bit optimistic.”

“It just makes me think,” Rafa says. He turns, leaning back against the handrail, across the boat from Andy. “Any time, any of this could be taken away. My parents’ marriage. My tennis career. Anything.”

Andy sets his fishing line down. Who cares about fish, whatever, they can all live today. He moves towards Rafa, reaching out his hand to touch Rafa’s elbow. “Not me,” he says. “You’re stuck with me.”

Somehow that makes Rafa laugh, biting his lip against it. 

“C’mon,” Andy says, tightening his grip. “That’s not funny. I mean it. I might not be, y’know, your idol Roger Federer or anything, sorry to disappoint, but you know how much I care about you. You’re my best friend.”

Rafa is staring at Andy’s fingers. “Yeah. My best friend.”

“You say that like you’re pissed at me,” Andy says, fake-wounded – 

"My best friend," Rafa repeats, almost in a whisper.

"You okay there?" Andy asks.

Rafa's head comes up. There's something reckless in his eyes, the lines taut in his face, and Andy's confused.

He's even more confused when Rafa steps forward into his space, bringing his free hand up to the back of Andy's neck in one fluid motion, their bodies flush together.

“What…” Andy starts.

“Would you still be my best friend,” Rafa asks, his face tense, “if I told you I want to kiss you?”

For a moment, the words don't quite register. Then they do, and Andy stares at Rafa, sure his eyes must be bigger than they've ever been before. They feel like they're as big as saucers. There's no way he can form any words right now. 

Rafa lets go of him and steps back, scrubbing his free hand across his face (Andy still has hold of his other elbow, fingers digging in tightly – Rafa will have fingertip bruises there tomorrow). Then he looks down at their feet. “Now do you see,” he says quietly, “why everything in my life is fucked right now?”

Andy looks at him, at the slump of his shoulders and the redness of his neck, and doesn’t let go of his elbow.

“I’m sorry,” Rafa says, still too quiet. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Andy wets his lips. His throat is dry too. “How long have you wanted – ” _to kiss me_ , but he can’t bring himself to say the words, as if it’ll make everything real – “to do that?”

Rafa shrugs, pale imitation of his usual eloquent gesture. 

If he’s not saying, Andy suspects it’s longer than he wants to admit. Three years? Four? Five? 

His brain feels like it’s just been plunged into an ice bath, still reeling from the first shock. He never knew… obviously there are guys who like guys in tennis, there are everywhere, and that’s totally fine with Andy, he doesn’t give a shit, but he never knew that Rafa… Rafa hadn’t told him, and Rafa would’ve told him, Andy thinks, unless… but that means it _has_ been a long time. And Andy – obtuse, incurious Andy – has been stampeding around like an elephant herd, never noticing what was apparently right in front of his face.

“Rafa,” he says, and pulls on Rafa’s elbow, gently, until Rafa stops being the picture of dejection and looks at him. “I can’t…”

“I know,” Rafa says, his lips white with strain. “I’m not asking. I just… I had to tell you.”

“Stop talking,” Andy says. “I’m not… I mean.”

Between the two of them they may eventually struggle to coherence. Maybe.

Rafa’s staying quiet, as instructed, and Andy wets his lips again and makes another attempt. “I didn’t know that you felt… I don’t know how I feel. I can’t tell you what I don’t know.” 

Has he ever thought about guys that way before? He doesn’t think so. But then he’s never really thought about girls either? He wanks, of course, because that’s just a thing that happens, and he’s had a few one-night stands with girls, but it’s been kind of underwhelming on the whole. If he’s honest with himself, he would’ve said until now that he was mostly tennis-sexual; too busy with tennis to be all that interested.

“I don’t know,” he says, again. “But I… I’m not saying no yet.”

Rafa’s eyes, so sad a moment ago, blaze with sudden light, as he lifts his face into the sunshine.

“I’m not saying yes yet either,” Andy says, quickly, not trying to raise false hope. He should swim back to shore, he should get out of this boat so they can both cool off, he should go inside and have a good long think about his boners and his sexual history, and maybe he should go find some gay porn and figure things out, except the idea of watching porn with Rafa’s mum in the house is really not cool…

He doesn’t swim back to shore. 

Maybe it’s just that Andy’s a practical guy. Maybe it’s that Rafa’s eyes are huge, up this close, and the way he’s breathing is making Andy’s stomach feel funny. Maybe it’s something magical in the Mediterranean air.

Whatever it is, Andy says, almost in a whisper, “Let me…” and leans in.

Rafa’s chapped lips against his own. Rafa’s elbow, which he still holds tightly. Rafa’s eyelashes, which tickle as they flutter against his cheek. Rafa’s body, which is so warm, pressed up between his and the handrail. 

The sun on his hair. The breeze from the sea. The little moan Rafa makes against Andy’s mouth, his lips parting –

Andy lets go of Rafa’s elbow and uses both arms to pull Rafa closer, one hand splayed possessively on Rafa’s back, the other threaded through Rafa’s hair.

(Guess he doesn’t need to watch gay porn now – though he may want to give it a try, his boner says slyly. Guess he won’t be confused anymore by how important sex is to all of his fellow players, because it’s pretty underwhelming to him. Guess he’s been missing something _pretty fucking huge_ his whole life. God, he hopes Jamie never finds out. Not that he likes guys – Jamie won’t care about that –but that it took him until he was twenty-two fucking years old to figure it out.)

When they come up for air at last, Rafa looks like he’s been kissed to within an inch of his life, and his hair is a complete and utter mess. His eyes are shining.

“Yeah,” Andy says. “So all that rubbish I said just now, about not knowing and all that shit. Ignore that.”

When Rafa grins, sunny and wide and full of joy, Andy feels something inside him slot into place.

~

_2017_

It’s funny, Andy thinks, how so many people see what they expect to see.

For so long, he’d assumed that he and Rafa were just best friends. He'd never realised that Rafa was in love with him - never realised that he was falling in love with Rafa too. And while he'd discovered the wrongness of his assumptions on that sunlit afternoon in Mallorca, the rest of the world had continued to cruise blithely along down the same misguided track.

He and Rafa have never had to outright lie. Nobody’s ever made the mental leap. Andy’s always been a regular presence in Rafa’s box (when his own tournaments and matches have allowed), and while Rafa becoming a more regular presence in Andy’s box post-2009 has sometimes drawn critique (he should be training/resting!), it's never caused suspicion. And Andy’s always been an adjunct member of Rafa’s team, like Marc (Andy’s full-time doubles partner since 2010), so his presence in Nadal hotel suites, at Nadal dinners, in Nadal planes, has never raised any eyebrows. Even Andy's relocation to Manacor full-time only drew some disapproving comment from British newspapers, which sniffed at his unpatriotic preference for sunny Spain but observed that he was known to have spent his teenage years there. (The British media has always been far more interested in Jamie anyways, particularly since he won Wimbledon.)

Sometimes Andy thinks they could sit together at a restaurant holding hands, with candlelight and roses and the whole silly romantic folderol, and people would say, “Aw, what a cute bromance those two have.”

The years have had their ups and downs. (2010 – a definite up, in every way. 2011, aka the Advent of The Rubber Man – a down. Etc.) Rafa’s body, which always feels like it’s being held together with tape and a prayer, has faltered on more than one occasion. But his spirit never has. Andy couldn’t be prouder of the way Rafa’s fought back, every time, determined to get back on tour and bite yet more trophies.

(Andy, as fate would have it, has never suffered a serious injury. It’s not really fair. His career hums along, a Slam semifinal here, a Masters title there. He’ll never be a Rafa, never even be a Nestor or a Bryan. He’d like to win a Slam someday. But if he doesn’t, he’ll be fine. He figures he’s already won enough for one man’s lifetime.)

2016 was a down. Oh, Jamie won Wimbledon again, which was great. He and Andy have got closer every year, now that they’ve outgrown their teenage spats and settled down into respectable maturity with their respective partners. They even won a Davis Cup together, which is hands down one of Andy’s best experiences on court. But Rafa got injured again, and spent most of 2016 on the sidelines. A Masters title here or there isn’t enough, not for Rafa.

2017, on the other hand, has started off pretty well. Coming back from injury, Rafa made it to the final at the Australian Open, before a Random Stanimal showed up again. (Andy long ago stopped trying to predict when Stan will show up for anything. The guy seems to thrive on lowering expectations as far as they’ll go, before going “psych! surprise!!!” and winning Slams out of nowhere.) He split the American hardcourt swing with Djokovic, taking Indian Wells (while Andy and Marc took the doubles title in Miami, which was amazing), and since then things have got rosier and rosier. It’s been a while since he’s come into Roland Garros as the undisputed King of the Clay Season, and it looks good on him. He’s more free, less cautious. Andy likes it.

Unlike 2016, the rain stays away this year, and the tournament proceeds calmly. Before Andy knows it, both he and Rafa are in the semifinals, and he can feel the adrenalin starting up in a big way.

(“If I win, I want my own trophy room,” Andy tells Rafa over breakfast.

Rafa’s butter knife slips, earning Andy a reproachful glare from Toni, who’s no doubt remembering the time Rafa injured himself with a bread knife. Truly Andy’s boyfriend is incident-prone. “Don’t jinx it!”

“I don’t believe in that shit,” Andy says, loftily. Really, it’s just that he’s spent so many years carefully not jinxing, and it didn’t get him any Slams, or even any Slam finals, so maybe jinxing _will_. Who knows. “I won’t jinx you, don’t worry.”

“I’ll throw your stuff out in the street,” Rafa tells him, pointing the butter knife in his direction. “You jinx me this week, we’re through.”

Andy does his best faux-worried face and steals fruit off Rafa’s plate when he’s not looking.)

And then, somehow, before Andy knows it, he and Marc have defeated Dodig and Melo, and they’re into the Roland Garros final. The final. His first Slam final.

It hardly seems real.

After his press conference (Andy is so not used to having to answer all these questions, holy shit was Jamie not kidding about the British media and their voraciousness), it turns out that Rafa’s already prepping for his semifinal against Thiem, so Andy goes to find Jamie instead. 

“If any of those reporters were actual piranhas, you’d tell me, right?” he asks.

Jamie, who looks remarkably unflustered for a guy who has a match against Djokovic coming up later in the afternoon, laughs. “Nah, I’d let them lunch on you so they leave me alone.”

“You’re such a great brother,” Andy says. “You going to come to the final?”

Jamie’d gone back to being engrossed in his phone, but he looks up again. “I’ll try. Depends. If I’m in the final, coach might want me resting. And if I’m not…” He grins. “Depends on how badly Novak spanked me. Might be licking my wounds in private. But I’ll watch on TV for sure.”

“Can we not talk about Novak spanking people,” Andy asks, because that is a mental image he doesn’t need.

~

Jamie doesn’t win. But Rafa does.

Andy has trouble sleeping that night, curled up against Rafa’s warm back. There’s a breeze from the window, but it doesn’t help. Tomorrow he plays his first Slam final; day after tomorrow Rafa faces Novak, for the eight-millionth time. 

The likelihood of them both winning isn’t high. Whatever one’s personal position on the everlasting GoAT debate, Novak is certainly the best player of the moment, despite Rafa’s strong clay season. He’s the defending champion. He hasn’t dropped a set all tournament. He’s won five of the last seven Slams, plus the Olympic gold last summer. And as for Andy, he and Marc have never won a Slam, or even been in a final. Their opponents, the Bryans, have been in _thirty_ Slam finals, and won _seventeen_ of them. That’s just ridiculous.

Andy has never been a praying man, but he hopes against hope that one of them beats the odds and wins.

(And if it can only be one, he might never admit this out loud, but he hopes it’s Rafa.)

~

When Andy and Marc walk on court for the final, he looks up to their box and is surprised to see not only his mum, not only Jamie (so much for licking his wounds), but Rafa as well. He ditches Marc and marches right over. 

“What are you doing?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest. He’s vaguely aware that the cameras might pick this up (doubles is rarely covered these days, but being a Brit in a Slam final does change things), but he doesn’t give a flying fuck. “You’ve got a final tomorrow. Go rest, you idiot.”

Rafa, who looks like he’s enjoying himself, just laughs at him.

“Toni’s going to kill me,” Andy says, plaintively.

His mum is looking between the two of them, grinning. She’s never learned much Catalan (although she says every year that she’s going to). It hasn’t been an issue because Rafa’s English is pretty fluent now, and when they’re around her he makes the gentlemanly gesture and keeps the conversation accessible to her. But every so often, like right now, they forget their manners and start up in furious mallorquí, and for some reason it amuses her every time.

(Jamie, meanwhile, has brought his phone and is filming everything.)

“Toni gave up on telling me what to do a long time ago,” Rafa says, arching an eyebrow. “I just blame him for shit so you’ll let me do what I want.”

“I am not having you lose Roland Garros because you sprained your tailbone sitting courtside to watch me play doubles,” Andy says, through gritted teeth. “Get your arse back to the hotel room, or at least to a practice court, right the fuck now.”

Rafa steeples his fingers against his lips and laughs at him. “If I ever sprain my tailbone, it’s not going to be because you were playing doubles,” he says, with so much innuendo in his tone that Andy flushes bright red, sure anyone in the vicinity will understand, Catalan or no Catalan.

“You’re fucking impossible,” Andy says, half mad and half fond, before throwing up his hands and heading back over to Marc, whose entreaties for him to return have been becoming increasingly urgent.

Two hours later, it’s all over.

Maybe Rafa is good luck, or it’s Jamie, or his mum, or a combination of all three. Maybe Andy’s jinxing earlier in the week paid off. Maybe the universe just decided that he, Andy Murray, deserves to be a Slam champion at long fucking last, for some inexplicable reason of its own.

However it came about, he’s standing on Chatrier, his head a dizzy whirl of dazed and ecstatic, and Marc is jumping up on him, shrieking in his ear, and they’ve won it. They’ve won.

When Andy was a kid, he used to dream about winning Wimbledon. He’d make up winner’s speeches and soundlessly deliver them in the backyard when Jamie wasn’t home to potentially catch him in the act. He’d imagine lifting the trophy to the home crowd, his heart leaping in his chest.

Now they give the microphone to him, and he doesn’t know what to say. His French is shit – seriously, Rafa’s is better than his, and Rafa’s is just this side of shit. 

“Merci beaucoup,” he says, in an atrocious mashup of a Scottish-mallorquí accent. (His brain does this with all new languages, gives him an unholy accent that cracks Rafa up no end.) He quickly switches to English, thanking the crowd, their opponents, the tournament, the ballkids. He tells them it’s always been his dream to win a Slam, feeling the lump in his throat. He thanks his family and friends for standing by him, for always being there for him. He thanks Jamie for sticking around to support his kid brother. 

For the last one, he switches into Catalan, because Catalan is theirs, and he doesn’t care if anyone else understands. “And finally, I have to thank the idiot who came out to support me today even though he knows perfectly well that he should be getting ready for his own final.” Rafa is laughing at him; Andy can’t see his face from this far away, but he knows the body language. “Thanks for always believing in me, and for making me always believe in myself. And I wasn’t kidding about the trophy room.”

Rafa gives him a thumbs-up, and Andy, grinning ear to ear, passes the microphone to Marc. 

~

Rafa wins 11-9 in the fifth, sealing the deal with one final banana forehand. As he collapses to the clay – face down, head in his arms, shoulders shaking – Andy leaps to his feet, screaming something incoherent. He’s not sure what language it is, or if it’s even any language at all. All he knows is that Rafa’s done it, his first Slam since 2014, finally a redemption for three long painful years.

Jamie is filming him, the wanker, and Andy flips him off cheerfully before going right back to screaming. His mum is jumping up and down, her arms around Rafa’s mum, who’s crying. Toni and Marc are screaming right alongside Andy, and Maymo is blinking hard. It’s one big cathartic shout of emotion, and Andy only stops yelling when Rafa picks himself up off the clay and turns to beam straight at him before heading to the net to shake Djokovic’s hand (who is being very patient about this, to give him credit). 

Andy doesn’t think he’ll stop smiling for approximately the next fifty-two days.

Rafa is old now – thirty-one! – so he doesn’t try to clamber up and over the side of the box, but comes around through the entrance like a normal person. Andy hangs back, letting the rest of them swarm him, back-pounding hugs and sobbing cheek kisses alike.

When Rafa gets to him, Andy says, “No jinx,” still grinning. 

Rafa touches his cheek with fingers covered in clay, his face alight.

That still probably wouldn’t have been enough for the media to finally catch on. Andy imagines the papers would have mentioned Rafa’s good friends Marc and Andy, new Roland Garros champions, who came to see their friend retake his throne. Andy was even such a good friend that he brought his family! How nice.

But when Rafa, his whole body trembling with joy, finishes thanking the crowd, his team, and his friends, and starts thanking his family, pointedly including ‘Judy and Jamie,’ Andy thinks the penny might start to drop.

And then Rafa turns to him, and Andy forgets to breathe.

“My heart,” Rafa says, in rapid mallorquí, his voice dancing. “There are not enough words in the world.”

~

_epilogue_

When they get back to Manacor, Andy finds out that Rafa called the interior decorator while Andy was in press after the doubles final, and offered her triple her usual price if she could convert one of the spare bedrooms to a trophy room in two days.

He laughs for five minutes.

She’s left the pride of place for his Roland Garros trophy, and he sets it down, still feeling a shiver of joy.

“Only the first of many,” Rafa says, coming in from the hall. “Doubles players can be ancient. You’ve got lots of years left.”

Rafa doesn’t have lots of years left; not with his knees, not with his back. They both know it, although neither will say it. Not yet. All in good time. Not now, when the joy is still so new.

“You going to come to every single final?” Andy asks instead, backing Rafa against the wall. They might as well christen Andy’s trophy room properly.

”Not if you call me an idiot in front of the whole world again,” Rafa says, but he’s grinning. 

As Andy kisses him, a breeze blowing through their open door, he can think of nowhere else in the world he would rather be.

~

**Author's Note:**

> * While Andy did train in Spain as a teenager, on Rafa's recommendation (they had met in juniors), it was not at the unnamed tennis centre in Mallorca in this fic, but at the Academia Sánchez-Casal in Barcelona.
> 
> * Hopefully this is clear in the fic, but Andy and Rafa speak mallorquí, the Mallorcan dialect of Catalan, unless otherwise indicated.
> 
> * Some of Andy's doubles results are Jamie's. Others are made up. The 2017 Roland Garros win is Marc's (with Feli Lopez), delayed a year.


End file.
